


Can't Help Falling

by fireheart93



Series: Life's a Circus (so why not join one) [8]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-14
Updated: 2014-05-14
Packaged: 2018-01-24 16:43:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1612145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fireheart93/pseuds/fireheart93
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Simmons has always loved the circus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can't Help Falling

Simmons has always loved the circus.

He remembers being a kid, growing up in a small town when every day was more or less the same and nothing ever happened. The biggest highlight of his year was the two weeks the circus was in town, nights filled with popcorn and toffee apples, acrobats and animals. When he was a kid his parents would take him, and when he grew up and they refused to go he would sneak out, claiming to be studying at a friend’s house. It was the only thing he ever lied to his parents about.

Well, the only thing save one. 

He’s known he was gay since he was fifteen years old, not with a moment of clarity, but with the slow, creeping realisation that his eyes lingered far longer on boys than girls, however he knew he would never come out to his parents. What was the point? It wasn’t like anyone would be interested in him, and his dad was finally beginning to be proud of him; he wasn’t going to risk that for anything. True, he hadn’t heard them express any homophobic thoughts, but he was smart, he could make an educated guess based on their opinions about religion and black people. So he kept his eyes in the floor, his brain on his work, and his heart securely in his chest. But as he came closer to eighteen things became harder (in every sense). He became aware, that although he was certain of his sexuality, he had no idea how the sex he could theoretically be having actually worked. He knew the basics, sure, but Simmons was an avid believer in the mantra Proper Preparation Prevents Poor Performance. So he stayed up ‘til midnight, googling everything he could possibly think of, until he went to bed, tired but satisfied that, when the time came, he would know what to do.

Too bad he didn’t know his mother had a habit of snooping through his internet history. 

The argument that followed wasn’t really an argument, in that his parents refused to call it that. She called it an intervention (had a banner and everything, he knew his nerdy tendencies came from somewhere). His father called it laying down the law; Simmons would be sent to military school, then the army, and by the time he came home he would be better. Simmons didn’t say a word, just went up to his room and locked the door. He didn’t cry, just packed his clothes, laptop and valuables in a bag, waited for his parents to go to bed and left the house. He took the first bus out of the station and refused to look back. 

It very quickly became apparent that Simmons was not cut out for living on the road.

He was used to a life of order and structure, not to drifting around, making what little money he had last as long as possible. Before long he was hungry, lost, and unspeakably lonely. 

When he saw the Circus it seemed like a miracle. 

He stumbled in, carrying everything he owned on his back and looked around desperately for anyone who could help him. The first man he saw was a tall, greying man who walked like he was in the army and had a vicious scar on his arm that looked like it came from some sort of big cat. He stopped when he saw Simmons.

“You okay son?” he asked. The last thing Simmons thought before he passed out was that maybe this guy would be a better father figure than his Dad had been. 

Simmons woke up on a bed in a tent. He tried to sit up but felt hands pushing him back down.

“Okay kid, don’t move for a sec, will you. Don’t want you falling over again.” He looked to his side and saw a woman stood over him, a man hovering in the background.  
“Will he be okay?” he asked.  
“I’m no medic, but I think he’ll be fine. Probably just hungry, look like he’s been living rough for a while,” Simmons opened his mouth to protest but there was nothing to say. She was right after all.  
“Why are you here?” the man asks.  
“I just need someplace to stay,” Simmon’s says, voice desperate. “I’ll do anything you want, I’ll sell tickets, I’ll sweep the floors, I’ll do anything, just let me stay.” There’s a silence for a moment, before the woman spoke up.  
“Sarge does need an extra pair of hands with the big cats, and I’ve had enough of him terrorizing my crew. That’s my job.” She grins wolfishly, the man doesn’t react so she turns back to him. “What d’ya say kid, think you could handle that?” Simmons gulped, but nodded.  
“An excellent suggestion, 479er,” the man said, standing to leave. “I will go and inform the director. You take this young man to the Sargent.”

And so Simmons settled into a new phase of his life.

Sarge was a gruff, ex-military man who appeared to have neither a first or last name, not that he would have told Simmons if he asked. He had been running the animal act in the Circus for years, since before the Director had taken over, and seemed more at home with the animals than with people. Simmons looked up to him immensely, unbelievably grateful to him for taking him in when even his own parents didn’t want him. A year passed, and then two, and Simmons began to believe that he could settle like this, that he could stay in the Circus with Sarge and everything would be okay.

And then Grif showed up and ruined everything. 

Dexter Grif was everything Simmons hated. He was lazy, to the point where he almost put more effort into avoiding work than the work itself would have taken. He napped in the shade while Simmons did all the heavy lifting, not even bothering to pretend to work when Sarge showed up. It would have been so easy for Simmons to hate him.

But Simmons couldn’t forget the way Grif had looked when he had shown up, like the Circus was a miracle sent from heaven just for him. 

So he put up with it, though he didn’t stop complaining, and they settled into a rhythm, a system that wasn’t perfect, but worked and was theirs. And on the days when he couldn’t help but remember his home and everything he had run away from, Grif was there with his sarcastic smirk, making jabs at the people around them, teasing him like they were friends, mocking him but inviting Simmons to mock him in return, laughing with him, not at him. They bickered and fought, but Simmons wouldn’t have it any other way.

It was safest when he was regularly reminded that Grif was, after all, a lazy asshole.  
Otherwise he would be very much in danger of falling for him.


End file.
